Bruce had acquired a transcript of the previous day's court proceedings from Oracle. He stared at it, having already read over the transcript three times, scrutinizing the details of every last word spoken.
It was obvious that Ronald Greenwauld had been constructing an image of Peter Devorak as an unstable, dangerous teenager who was not responsible for his actions, and therefore unfit for criminal incarceration.
He had done a good job.
Of course, the fact that the Assistant District Attorney had offered virtually nothing in opposition to Greenwauld's motion hadn't hurt matters any. Bruce shook his head; the sudden movement by Greenwauld to move Raven from Blackgate, the unusually speedy scheduling of the hearing, the total lack of opposition from the A.D.A . . . it all wreaked of payoff. But, then so did a lot of things. And there was nothing that Bruce could do about any of it.
For now, anyway. Tim would be getting out of school at 1:30 p.m. so that he could prepare himself for the announcement of Judge Ottenbach's decision. Bruce was planning on attending himself, although not directly. He didn't want people to think that Bruce Wayne had any sort of vested interest in what happened to a 15-year old possibly-insane murderer, and in disguise he would just be an all-too mysterious individual in the back of a courtroom.
Last night, after Batman and Robin's patrol, Bruce had given Tim a small, long range radio transmitter. The transmitter was to be sewn into the lining of Tim's jacket, so that Bruce could listen to what was happening in the courtroom without actually being present. Bruce reminded himself to thank Harold for the invention . . . he got to thinking that he didn't thank Harold nearly enough.
Bruce shook his head; if Harold decided to peek out of his workshop, deep in the recesses of the cave's lower plateau, Bruce would try and give an acknowledgment to him. Until then, he could fit a pretty good workout into the four hours before the hearing convened.
Jackson Airport, Jackson Mississippi, 11:07 a.m.
Jean-Paul had been just about to board a plane to Seattle, Washington--the most distant of the Major League cities on the list he had compiled--when a realization had struck him. His query, Victor Benson, had an obsession with baseball. He had never lived in anyplace other than a Major League city. Now, he was doing his best to get lost from the FBI. Major League teams employed scores of people in their organizations, many of which worked year-round, baseball season or not. It seemed like the perfect situation for someone like Benson.
Jean-Paul ran from his place in line to the nearest empty pay phone. He pumped in the necessary change and dialed Oracle. "Oracle?" he asked, once he was connected and his ID code had been accepted.
"Azrael? How goes the search?"
Jean-Paul drew in a breath. "I haven't made too much headway yet, but if you can get me some information, it could help out a great deal."
"Sure . . . I'll do my best. What do you need?"
"I need . . . I need a list of every employee for every Major League Baseball team. Both leagues, all divisions. Everything, especially recent employees. People who've been hired within . . . say, the last six months."
Jean-Paul could hear Oracle typing furiously. "That's . . . an extremely tall order. But, if you can give me an address that you'll be keeping for more than a day or two, I can FedEx the info to you by tomorrow, probably. Maybe tonight, if I don't get loaded down with . . . other requests."
"That will be fine. Thank you . . . very much."
Oracle sighed. "Don't mention it. Until next time, Azrael."
"Good-bye, Oracle."
Arkham Asylum, 1:25 p.m.
New Arkham was populated by three patients now.
There were twenty cells.
Edward Nygma was in one. He sat in the corner of his new surroundings, looking at himself in the two-way mirror that served as the entrance/exit to and from this place. There was no denying that this was a nice cell: carpeted floor, thick, pillow-like padding on the walls, even a real bed. Except for the mirror, the cell almost seemed like . . . something other than punishment.
The mirror could be taken care of; Oswald Cobblepot had already said he would see to that, if Nygma would agree to assist him in certain "enterprises." It wasn't a decision that Edward took lightly. Afterall, as the Riddler, Nygma had always been the boss. He had brought the gangs together, he had planned the job, he had scribed the riddles . . .
And, where has all that gotten me? Nygma was asking himself. Maybe what he needed was someone to answer to, someone just over his head who could make sure that things would work this time. In all the years since his inception, the one thing the Riddler had never possessed was assurance of success.
Nygma had been thinking most of last night, and this morning and afternoon. He decided that, if he had to remain in Arkham Asylum, he would do all that he could to make it a more hospitable place to live.
Right next to Edward Nygma's cell was the new dwelling of Killer Croc. Croc was watching as his small salamander, which he had named Swampy, scurried along the carpeted floor. Croc looked around at his near-empty cell, and realized that there was room for many other pets. He decided that, if the Penguin would find a way to get him some more . . . well, swamp things, Croc would do what he could to help Cobblepot out.
As long as he was important; whatever Croc did, it would have to matter.
On the other side of Croc's cell sat Two-Face. The man who had once called himself Harvey Dent sat staring at two things in front of him on the floor. One was his two-headed coin. Two-Face picked it up, turning it over and over in his fingers, admiring both the shining, brilliant, flawless head, and the scuffed, scarred flip-side. The other object on the floor was the piece of paper the coin had been wrapped in when Guard Fowler had delivered it to him this morning. The paper was personalized stationary, From the Desk of Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot.
The note read:
O.C.C.
Two-Face crumpled the note, and flipped the coin.
Drake Mansion, 1:40 p.m.
Tim pulled off his shirt and tossed it onto the floor beside his jeans. He pulled open the doors of his closet and reached inside, removing one of three dress suits he wore. One was black, one navy blue, the other sky blue. He had worn the black suit to the hearing yesterday, so he opted for the navy blue for today.
Tim pulled the suit, vest, and slacks from off the hanger and laid them out on the top of his bed. He picked up the shirt, pulled on the left sleeve, then the right sleeve, then stopped. Tim was staring at himself in the mirror. There were suddenly dozens of things running through his mind at once, and he was trying to sort them out.
What if Peter's transferred to Arkham?
Why is this hearing even happening?
Who is this Greenwauld guy, anyway?
Who hired him?
Why did the Penguin buy Arkham?
Is he behind this?
Why does the Penguin want Peter?
Tim's body shook suddenly, and he realized he had been standing still and staring in the mirror for almost five minutes, doing nothing. Suddenly aware that he was supposed to be getting ready for something very important, Tim started buttoning his shirt. When that was done, he pulled on the slacks.
His mind was still racing with dozens of concerns, but he did his best to send them away.
Avian Paradise Casino, 1:53 p.m.
Oswald Cobblepot spun around in his chair to face Groverton as he stepped into the penthouse. Cobblepot's secretary, assistant, and friend trotted down the steps, clutching a legal pad. "What is it?" Cobblepot asked, resting his chin in his hand.
Groverton pulled up a chair. He sat down and crossed his legs, tossing the legal pad onto the desk. "There are four messages, sir."
"Anything of vital interest?"
Groverton nodded, picking up the pad. "One is from Counselor Greenwauld. He says, quote, 'I'm very confident in our chances today. I think that Ottenbach will see things our way.' And, then there's one from C-P-C Quentin."
Cobblepot nodded. "Ah." He pointed his index finger at the legal pad. "That's the one I was waiting for."
Groverton straightened his glasses and cleared his throat as he looked down at the legal pad. "Mr. Quentin told me to tell you that you are . . ." Groverton looked up from the pad. " . . . three for three."
The Penguin grinned wide, genuinely happy. Groverton thought his boss might actually laugh. "Yes, yes, yes! Do you know what this means, my friend?"
Groverton inhaled and held the breath, regarding Cobblepot thoughtfully. "You mean, being a pitiful baseball analogy isn't sufficient?"
Cobblepot grinned even wider, if that was possible. "Everything's beginning to . . . " The Penguin held out his hands and began plucking imaginary soldiers from the air and aligning them on his clean desktop. " . . . fall into place. Once we've worked out the kinks in the lines of communication, all will be--"
"--Perfect?" Groverton interjected.
"--ready, although I do admire your optimism, my friend."
Cobblepot checked his watch, and an urgent look crossed his face. He stood, and started for the door to his far left, which led to the penthouse's master bedroom.
"And, where to now?" Groverton asked, standing as well.
"To get dressed, of course. As owner of Arkham Asylum, I have a legitimate interest in what happens today at the courthouse." Cobblepot waved to Groverton with his left hand as he stepped in front of his bedroom closet. "Come here, Groverton; help me pick out a suit." The Penguin shook his head proudly and smiled. "Maybe, after today, I can dare to use the word perfect."
Gotham County Courthouse, 2:10 p.m.
Tim put his hand in his pocket. He had been running his thumb over the small transmitter sewn into his jacket lining almost compulsively, and didn't want people to get suspicious.
Suspicious of what? 'Hey, Drake, what's that in your suit lining? It isn't a microtransmitter is it? Okay. It was just a stab anyway.' That's just ridiculous . . . I hope.
Hudson, Ives, Ariana, everyone was already there. Tim felt his father's hand on his shoulder as he made his way down the row. Next to Ariana were two empty seats. Tim and his father sat down. Ariana was looking blankly at the floor; the only part of her that moved were her eyelids when they blinked periodically. Tim leaned in towards her ear. "Ari, maybe you should call me tonight," he whispered. "We haven't . . . talked."
Ari nodded once and blinked several times. "All right," she said quietly.
Tim looked around; both Ives and Hudson were looking at him. He leaned closer to Ari. "Look, Ari . . . even if the judge rules in Peter's favor, he's going to be in Arkham for a long time." He put his arm around her. "Don't worry. This isn't going to be like last time."
Ariana didn't seem too comforted, but she looked at Tim and forced a smile. Hudson was sitting just in front of Tim, and he turned around and motioned him forward. Tim leaned forwards towards his friend, turning his ear towards him. "What do you think?"
Tim gave Hudson an empty look. "Think about what?"
Hudson rolled his eyes. "You know; today. Do you think he's gonna get off?"
Tim looked at the floor for a moment. "I don't think that letting him off was on the judge's verdict checklist, Hud-man."
"Come-on, don't get smart. I mean, do you think he's getting off the row?"
"The row? Really getting into that fancy prison speak, aren't you?"
"Stop dodging my question."
"All right. . . . Yes, I think that when they put him back in the Heavy Duty, he'll be taking a trip out to Sommerset."
"The Heavy Duty?"
Tim grinned. "I'm really into that fancy police talk."
The doors to the courtroom were pulled open, and Oswald Cobblepot walked inside. He made his way easily down the middle of the courtroom and took a seat in the first row behind the table where Peter Devorak and Ronald Greenwauld sat. He was dressed in his usual white tuxedo.
Hudson shrugged. "Well, at least he doesn't have to spend too much time sifting through his closet."
Tim gave Hudson a crooked grin, then sat back in his chair. He looked at Cobblepot. That's a little obvious, isn't it? The bailiff walked out of the judge's chambers. Hudson just shook his head and turned back around. "All please rise for the Honorable Harold Ottenbach."
Judge Ottenbach walked out, looked briefly at those assembled, and sat down behind the bench.
"Please be seated," he ordered gruffly. The judge cleared his throat with a loud, phlegmy sound. "I don't see any point in beating around the bush. I have looked over the testimony of yesterday, I have reviewed the report of the psychiatrist to Blackgate Prison. I have considered both the pros and cons of my decision heavily, and finally--late last night--decided that, yes, it was the right one to make."
Tim coughed and settled down in his chair. Jack Drake looked at his son, then straight ahead.
"It is the ruling of this court," Judge Ottenbach continued, "that the young man, Peter Devorak, is mentally unfit to face execution, despite the fact that the opposite has been ruled by a jury of this state. The death sentence of Peter Devorak is hereby rescinded. Furthermore, it is the ruling of this court that Peter Devorak, beginning today, is remanded to the facilities at Arkham Asylum, where he will receive psychological therapy and counsel, until such a time when he can rejoin society as an active, productive member."
Ariana lowered her head. "Court is adjourned." Ottenbach rapped the gavel, stood, and retired to his chambers. Peter stood and was escorted out through a side door, to begin his trip to the asylum. Oswald Cobblepot stood, shook Ronald Greenwauld's hand, then left through the same door as Peter.
Tim tried to think of something to say to Ariana, but nothing came. He and his father left without a word to anyone.
Arkham Asylum, 3:34 p.m.
Two-Face was sitting still in his cell. He was looking at the hallway that lay just beyond the two-way mirror. Cobblepot had kept his word, and had the view of the mirrors reversed.
In Two-Face's hand was his coin. Currently, the marred side was face up, but he had been turning the coin over and over in his hand several times.
There were always two thoughts in his mind. They were always different. In fact, if they happened to be a suggestion, they were usually complete opposites, choosing two completely different solutions to the same problem.
Once, an eternity ago, it seemed, Two-Face had been one man, one mind. Once, an eternity ago, it seemed, he was Harvey Dent, District Attorney, scourge of the Gotham underworld. A splash of acid, and scars that cut much deeper than mere flesh changed all that forever.
Once, an eternity ago, it seemed, he could make decisions without a coin. An eternity ago, he could act on whim. Once, he could make decisions on the split second, do things driven by impulse. Now, his life was ruled by chance. One to one. Fifty-fifty.
Someplace deep inside his scarred soul, there was something of Two-Face that resembled the man Harvey Dent had once been. It was something that longed, more than anything, for that time . . . that time that seemed an eternity ago.
Two-Face saw Guard Jake Fowler stop in front of his cell. Fowler reached out and touched a button on the control panel to the left of the mirrored entrance. There was a faint buzzing sound, and then Two-Face was staring at his own reflection. He imagined that Fowler was looking in at him, so he stared blankly at the mirror. The locking mechanism disengaged, and the mirror slid to the right.
Oswald Cobblepot stepped into the cell, and the mirror slid closed again. The mirror's view reversed, and Two-Face could see the hall again. Anyone outside would only see their own reflection. Cobblepot walked to a spot approximately four feet away from Two-Face and sat down cross-legged on the floor opposite him. Two-Face watched the other man, and began turning his coin over and over again in his hand. He stopped, and looked down at his hand: the good side of the coin was gleaming up at him. "Come about two-feet closer," Two-Face asked in his low, rough tone of voice.
Cobblepot planted his feet on the floor and scooted two feet closer. "There. How's that?"
Two-Face watched Cobblepot with anticipation.
"First, I want to thank you for deciding to become part of my counsel."
"Is that what you call it?"
"Well, you will be doing much more than simply offering advice, but I would feel free to ask some of you, when necessary. You are, afterall, one of the premiere authorities on the illegal operations of Gotham City."
Two-Face drew in a breath. "Maybe we should be flattered."
Cobblepot looked at Two-Face expectantly. "Are you?"
"We're not sure. We don't think so."
"Very well."
"Why are you in our cell?"
The Penguin's shoulders rose slowly as he drew in a breath. "You'll recall that I mentioned to you . . . 'field trips,' when necessary to conduct certain business."
Two-Face nodded. "We remember."
"There are several street gangs in Gotham City that are worthy of note. Of these, the Bone-Eaters on Ascotte Avenue are the largest in numbers. Plus, since the unfortunate death of the leader of the Serpents, the Bone-Eaters are the only large gang to have a strong leader."
Two-Face looked at the Penguin with his bad eye. "Killer Mac," he said in a voice that was even lower than usual.
Cobblepot's right eyebrow rose quickly. "You know of him."
Two-Face nodded. "We crossed paths with him before, with Raven."
"Ah. So, it was the Bone-Eaters who provided your manpower. Interesting . . ."
"Get to the point, Penguin."
Cobblepot sighed, making a gentle hrrmmph sound. "The Bone-Eaters are aware of my status in Gotham, but they don't seem to respect it. I've tried . . . and failed . . . to obtain information on the gang, and it's individual members, hoping to find something I could use to persuade these youngsters to see things my way."
"What do you want us to do?"
"There are certain businesses that Black Mask used to control. Now, I control these. Most everyone knows and respects this. But . . . Killer Mac and his boy's club haven't quite gotten it through their collective heads that certain behaviors on certain properties are off-limits."
Two-Face nodded with understanding. "You want us to make the Bone-Eaters behave themselves."
"Exactly. According to the police reports I've read, members of the Bone-Eaters have been suspected in robberies of no less than three of my businesses in the past week or so. I need someone with your hands-on experience to teach these gang-bangers a much needed lesson. What do you say?"
Two-Face held his coin up to the Penguin, turning it around to show both sides. "It isn't our decision." Two-Face balanced the coin on the side of his index finger and flipped it halfway to the ceiling with his thumb. He reached out, caught it, and held it at arm's length in his closed fist. Bringing his hand towards him, Two-Face unrolled his fingers and viewed the coin. He slid the coin up and held it between his index and middle fingers. The Penguin was looking at the scarred head. "We'll do it," answered Two-Face, then laid his coin down in front of him.
Cobblepot stood. "As I'd hoped. Quentin will drop by and escort you out after lights-out. He'll drive you out to Ascotte Avenue, and then you'll be for the most part on your own."
Two-Face gave Cobblepot a crooked smile. "Good. We work best alone."
Apartment of Dick Grayson, 5:21 p.m.
Dick opened the bathroom door, and wasn't quite walking right.
Ah! he exclaimed in his mind. Maybe I . . . shouldn't be in such a hurry. Dick walked over to his couch, and slowly sat down. Ah! Damn! The pain would go away in a few minutes; it always did.
There was a stack of magazines on the floor at the foot of the couch; somewhere near the bottom was the TV Guide. Dick fished the Guide out and began leafing through the pages. Let's see . . . Friday . . . Friday . . .
As he was looking through the small magazine, Dick found himself periodically looking back towards the kitchen, towards the telephone. He had called Heidi Stone three times today, left a message on her answering machine all three times. The last time he'd called was over two hours ago now, and still no answer.
Alfred said Friday's her day off . . . she must be screening her calls.
Dick caught himself glancing at the phone again, and smacked himself hard in the side of the head. He felt like a teenager. This was ironic, since he never went on dates when he was a teenager; it was all new to him.
He didn't like to worry, to fret, to wait by the phone like some hormonal adolescent whose worst fear in the world is rejection by the opposite sex; but at least it took his mind off of the other Heidi.
Forget the other Heidi, Dick told himself. You should've gotten over little obsessions like that--how old am I? Twenty-three . . . should've gotten over those things ten years ago.
That was it, then. Dick wouldn't pursue things with that Heidi anymore. If she called, wanted to talk, fine. But, she's no longer part of my life.
Somehow, he felt better. Dick went back to the TV Guide, and didn't even have an urge to glance at the phone. If he was putting one Heidi out of his mind, he might as well get rid of the other one, too.
Couldn't hurt.
McTierney's Warehouse, 11:51 p.m.
Batman stepped one leg up on the parapet of the roof of the warehouse, leaning on his calf. His eyes swept across the skyline from behind his cowl, then moved down and quickly scanned the streets below. There was little activity. In fact, in the days since the Penguin had asserted control over what had been Black Mask's, the streets of Gotham had been eerily quiet in the hours after dusk. This made Batman more than a little uneasy.
The same thing had happened at the beginning of Black Mask's reign.
Robin walked up and stood next to Batman, searching his field of vision much as Batman had. Robin sat down on the parapet, his back to the city. "I didn't call Ariana," he said in a low voice. Batman turned his head towards his partner.
"She didn't call you?"
Robin shook his head. "She might have; I took a nap." Batman gave his partner a cynical look. "On purpose," Robin relented.
"From what I heard over the transmitter, you two haven't talked about what you told her."
Robin shook his head again, sighing. "It's like . . . I always knew that I'd have to tell her someday. I just didn't expect it to be so soon. I guess it was kind of dumb for me to believe I could keep the secret from her for too long."
Batman tilted his head to the side. "You just had to decide where your priorities were, Robin. Whatever decisions you make regarding your secret identity, I'll stand behind you. I might not approve, or even like what you opt to do, but I'll always be here when you need me."
Robin nodded, but he didn't seem too comforted. "What about Nightwing?"
Batman drew in a breath and looked out over the city again. "Nightwing is ruled more by his emotions than I am. And, he's very dedicated to this . . . thing I've created. Don't worry; he might have seemed angry, but he's as behind you as I am."
"He just seemed so furious when I told you guys . . ."
"Well, Dick's had problems of his own as of late, according to Alfred."
Robin's wandering gaze shot straight to Batman. "Like what?" It was the first time tonight he hadn't been thinking about his own problems.
"Something to do with a girl--a woman" Batman answered, correcting himself.
Robin sighed. "Maybe there's something going around . . ."
"You never know. It could be that--" Batman stopped suddenly and looked up, like an animal sniffing the air for the scent of a predator . . . or prey. Leaning over the roof ledge, the dark knight caught sight of two men, both white and appearing to be in their twenties, possibly early thirties. One of the two men was working on the lock to the front door of the warehouse. The other was facing the other direction, hands in his pockets, watching nervously all around.
A faint smile crept over Batman's face. He glanced at Robin, whose smile was more evident. Amateurs, they were both thinking. Batman hopped up on the parapet, and crouched low, waiting for the right moment. He looked at Robin, who nodded. Batman sprung from his perch and fell towards the sidewalk. The dark knight spun in the air and landed three feet to the left of the would-be robbers. Just as they were turning to see Batman, Robin touched ground and swept the leg out from under the closest one. When the fallen punk's partner turned around again to find Robin, Batman took him in a headlock, drove a knee hard into the small of his back, and flipped him unconscious onto the cold sidewalk.
Robin had already begun tying up "his" perp. When both men were securely bound, Robin stood and brushed the palms of his hands together, standing proudly over them. "Nothing like an old-fashioned robbery attempt to get the juices flowing."
Batman picked up the man closest to him by his bound wrists and dragged him over to the burnt-out lamp post that stood several feet away. After tying the unconscious robber to the post with another length of cord, Batman stood up straight and looked over at the unconscious man at Robin's feet. "I guess these punks aren't observing the unofficial curfew."
Robin nodded, rolling the man at his feet over and binding his hands and feet together behind his back. "What do you think these guys were after?"
Batman looked at the door, then up the entire height of the warehouse. "I'm not sure. This warehouse has been owned by a small-time construction company for the past two years. They wouldn't have found much more inside than a few bulldozers and a lot of dirt."
"I guess they were misinformed."
Batman knelt down and pulled the wallet from the pocket of the man tied to the lamp post. "Henry York," he read, looking at the man's driver's license. "I'll run a records check when we get back to the car."
Robin removed the grapple from his belt and fired it up to the top of the warehouse. "Maybe it was just one of those things."
Batman fired his own grapple. "It's never one of those things," he said before pressing the retract button and returning to the roof.
213 Ascotte Avenue, 12:14 a.m.
Quentin pulled the car up to the curb and let the engine run.
Two-Face pushed the door open and stepped one foot on the ground. "Wait for us down the street. We'll call if we need you." Two-Face exited the car, as did the three hired thugs who sat in the back seat. They fell in close behind Two-Face, and the four walked up and stopped in front of the entrance to 213 Ascotte Avenue. Inside, they could hear loud, possibly drunken conversation.
The three thugs stepped up in front of Two-Face, and the largest of them kicked the doorknob. The door flung open, bouncing off the inside wall and swinging halfway closed again. The three thugs charged inside, forming a triangle in front of the door. The thug in front of the door moved to the side, and Two-Face stepped in, brandishing a sawed-off double barrel shotgun. "We're looking for Killer Mac.".
The room was full of the life's blood of the Bone-Eaters gang: almost thirty men and boys, as young as 13, as old as 25.There were also about ten young women in the room, presumably prostitutes. Most of them were sitting or standing along the sides and in the corners of the room, but several formed a small cluster near the middle of the room's back wall. Two-Face pointed the gun towards this area, and repeated his statement. The cluster split, the boys and their women moving to different sides of the room. In the middle of where the cluster of people had been were two people; a young man who couldn't have been older than 19, and a much younger looking girl who was straddling him, rocking back and forth on his lap.
Two-Face reached into his pocket and removed his coin. He held it up in front of him, opened his fist, and looked at the coin. He slid the coin back in his pocket, pointed the double barrel and shot the young girl in the head with both barrels. Everyone in that direction hit the ground, most of them bombarded by stray spheres of shot. Most of the gun's lead spray, however, impacted directly with the back of the girl's head, blowing the contents of her skull all over the young man she had been straddling. The force of the shot pushed her body onto him, and he stood up suddenly, yelling in shock and regarding her headless form with horror.
The three thugs who had come in with Two-Face had the room covered, while Two-Face took his time reloading the shotgun. The horrified young man reached behind him and plucked an automatic pistol from his belt. "Motherfucker!"
Two-Face slid the second shell into the second barrel, snapped the shotgun closed, and brought it up on the pistol-wielding punk. "Hello, Mac. Now that we've got your attention . . ." Two-Face said calmly.
An amazed look fell on Killer Mac's face. Slowly, but not completely, he lowered the gun. "Face? What the fuck are you doing? You blew the shit out of my . . . what the fuck?!"
"Shut-up, Mac. And put the nine-millimeter if you don't want to be joining what's left of your girlfriend on the floor." Mac's eyes flared angry, but he stood still. "We're here on behalf of the man who runs the Garthwood Cycle Shop," Two-Face informed him.
Mac's head tilted to the side, and he gave the shotgun brandishing gangster a confused look.
"The place you knocked off two days ago, imbecile," Two-Face clarified. "There's an investor in the place who isn't at all happy with what you punks have been doing lately. Tonight, it stops."
Mac looked around at his gang, then shrugged, holding out his arms. "So? What's the big man's proposition? You didn't just come here to shoot my whores, did you?"
"Don't touch anything that's his, and you can go ahead with business as usual. Drugs, fencing, whatever it is that you do, you can do it. Everything except stepping on his toes."
Killer Mac raised an eyebrow, looked around at everyone else in the room, questions in his eyes. He spun around slowly, looking at each and every member of the Bone Eaters as if to ask So, what do you think? Should I just blow this asshole's ugly head off? Mac read the expressions on their faces, then turned back to Two-Face. Mac simply shrugged and said, with a smile, "Fuck you." Mac raised his gun and fired.
Two-Face jerked his head to the side, missing the bullet. The three hired thugs stepped in front, shielding Two-Face from Mac. Two-Face reached again into his pocket, and removed his coin. He flipped it, casually caught it in his palm, and looked at it. Marred side up.
"If this is how you want it," Two-Face cautioned Mac, turning around slowly. The three thugs parted in front of him.
Mac repeated, "Fuck you."
Two-Face nodded twice, then shot Mac squarely in the chest, discharging both barrels. The blast threw Mac back nearly six feet, and he hit the floor as dead as his prostitute. Two-Face put the shotgun in his jacket and turned nonchalantly to the Bone Eaters who had gathered around their fallen leader. "We would suggest you not bury him just yet. Let him serve as a reminder for what will happen to all of you if you don't smarten up." Without another word, he turned and left.
Quentin was waiting outside. "I heard shots," he said as Two-Face climbed in the car. "What went down?"
Two-Face shut the door. "Nothing; we just had to utilize some visual aide in our school lesson."
Quentin waited until everyone was inside, then pulled out into the street. "Whatever."
Residence of Vari and Natasha Dzerchenko, Gotham Heights, 12:21 a.m.
She must have been dreaming.
Ariana was drifting in and out of sleep; she kept hearing the same sound. Tap . . . Tap . . . Tap . . .
She opened her eyes and looked around her darkened room groggily. Tap Tap Tap Tap The sound was coming from the windows. Ariana rolled over and buried her face in her pillow, still half asleep. TapTapTapTapTap
Ariana was almost totally asleep again when she heard the sound of her window's lock being removed, and the window being lifted opened. One black-booted foot touched the hardwood floor, then another.
Ariana pressed her palms onto her mattress and pushed herself up, looking down at her pillow, and strands of her own long black hair that hung down over her eyes. With one hand she brushed these back, and rolled over.
Robin smiled at her.
Ari drew back in bed, instinctively pulling the covers over her. Robin's smile grew wider, and he looked at her floor, embarrassed. "It's still me, Ari."
She exhaled, smiling with embarrassment. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'll never get used to this."
Robin shrugged and walked up and sat on the edge of her bed. "Oh, I think you will--if I drop by your room after midnight enough." They both laughed, but quietly. Robin stopped laughing and his face grew serious. "I didn't call you."
Ari nodded. "I tried to call you, but your housekeeper said you were sleeping. I guess I know why you're always taking naps after school."
"You got me. . . . Ari, we really have to talk about this."
"I know. I know, but it's . . ."
"There won't be a better time, you know."
Ariana took a deep breath, and began twisting the bedsheets between her fingers. "How long have you . . . been doing this?"
Robin put his hands on his knees and looked down at the floor. "Since a little while before I moved out here to Gotham Heights; right after my Dad's accident."
"But, how did you--"
Robin held up his hand. "Ari, none of that's important. We need to talk about how this is affecting us."
Ariana nodded. "I know."
"Well . . . I dunno, what do you think . . . of me being Robin . . . ?"
"I . . . well . . . I don't know yet. I mean, I just found out twenty-four hours ago. I'm . . . just not sure."
"Yeah, but, do you like the idea? Do you worry? Do you--"
"I haven't known long enough to worry."
"I had to keep it a secret, to protect everyone involved."
"I wasn't involved until you told me."
"Believe me, Ari, you were always involved."
"Why tell me now?"
"Because by not telling, I almost lost you. I'll never lose you like that."
Ariana reached out her hand, and Robin took it, caressing the top with his thumb. "It's pretty dangerous being Robin. Isn't it?"
Robin nodded slowly. "Yeah. Yeah, it is. But, I know what I'm doing. Believe me, Batman didn't give me this suit until he was sure I was ready."
Ariana looked to the side. "I hope you won't get mad if I still worry about you."
"Just as long as you don't do it out loud . . ."
They laughed together again, and Robin let go of her hand. "If you get yourself hurt, I'll be so mad . . ."
Robin reached out to her, and he and Ariana embraced before he stood and started towards the window. "I need to put your lock back in the window," he said, removing a small tool from a utility compartment on his right sleeve. After repairing the lock, he lifted the window open and stepped one foot outside onto the grass.
"So, you could probably get into my house at any time?" Ari asked, smiling mischievously.
Robin smiled sheepishly. "I always could. But, I won't. Don't worry." He stepped outside and prepared to shut the window. "Ari, the one thing that this won't change is what we have between us." The girl nodded, and waved to him. "Good-night."
He shut the window and turned to face Batman. "How'd it go?"
Batman and Robin started back for the Batmobile. "Pretty good, I think. Thanks for waiting."
7171 Ascotte Avenue, 1:39 a.m.
The room's only TV set was tuned to channel 13, where a baseball game had gone into the fifteenth inning.
Sitting and standing around the TV were nearly fifteen members of the Bone Eaters, having fled when the police arrived shortly after Two-Face had killed Killer Mac. Standing beside the television was Terry "Spikes" Hicks, who lived in 7171 Ascotte, and had assumed the position of inpromptu leader in the wake of Mac's death.
On the TV, the image of Kent Casey, the third relief pitcher the Gotham Knights had sent to the mound since the eighth inning, was replaced by the station's logo. Then, Bill Withers, anchorman of the WGOT-13 Early News, was sitting at the news desk. "We must interupt the local coverage of this incredibly exciting but exhausting baseball contest between the Gotham Knights and the New York Yankees to bring you this special report: Arthur Mackenzie, also known as Killer Mac, the leader of the street gang calling themselves the Bone Eaters, was shotgunned to death earlier tonight. Police have apprehended Kyle Finley, an inmate in Arkham Asylum who was discovered missing earlier this evening, and charged him with the crime. Finley was found outside the Thirteenth District Police Station, carrying the shotgun he apparently used to commit the crime. As always, we at Channel Thirteen will keep you posted on any further developments. Now, back to the Knights."
Spikes slammed his fist into the TV's off button. "Bullshit! Goddammit!" He turned to the rest of the gang who had assembled in his apartment. "Now that Mac's gone, the Penguin can walk all over us unless we do something!!"
Another Bone Eater stood up beside Spikes; someone everyone called Jim Crazy. Jim cleared his throat. "Spikes' right! We gotta get our asses in gear, or else it ain't gonna be just the Penguin who's after us. What about the fuckin' G-C-P-D, who's gonna be on our asses like fuckin' hemroids now that we ain't got no leader?!"
The rest of the gang nodded to themselves. "What we gotta do," Crazy continued, "is find ourselves somewhere outside of town, maybe in New York or Metropolis, and just hole up 'til this shit blows over. Then, we can come back , kick everyone out, and get back our territory."
Spikes took a big step to the side and glared at Jim Crazy. "Are you out of your motherfuckin' mind? We have been attacked! We gotta fight back against this shit! What we do is hold our ground, stake out the goddamn harbors and get ourselves in on the next gun shipment up this way from Virginia. Then, we blow the fuck out of the fuckin' Penguin and take back what's ours."
Crazy held up his hand. "You're nuts, fucko. Penguin's in charge of this whole city; if we fuck around with him, he'll blow all our asses to shit without even fuckin' thinking about it. You're fuckin' nuts!"
Someone else in the group of fifteen stood up. "Sit down, Crazy! I'm with Spikes--I say we get some heavy artillery and kick ass!"
From across the room, two other Bone Eaters stood and began to yell.
"Spikes, you're a goddamn . . . whatcha fuck . . . reactionary! You'll get us all fucked."
"Get the fuck down, Spikes. I say we get outta here and wait this shit out while we still got that choice."
Spikes pointed at both men. "Sit the fuck down! Fuck you!"
Jim Crazy stepped forward and punched Spikes hard in the side of the jaw. Spikes fell back, reeling from the punch and holding his cheek. He reached into his side pocket and pulled a small, two-shot pistol. "I ain't never shot another Boner, Crazy. But, if you don't get the fuck outta my place right now, I'm about to have a change of opinion."
Crazy put up his hands up and began backing towards the door. He waved with one hand, beckoning the rest of the gang to come with him. As he left, several of the Bone Eaters stood and started for the door.
Spikes pocketed his gun. "Fuck you. Fuckin' assholes." When the door shut, half of those that had been there were gone. Spikes looked around at who remained, took out his gun, and threw it hard into the wall. "Just perfect!" he yelled angrily. "Civil fuckin' war."